


there will be no grand choir to sing

by extremegraphicviolins



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, i wrote them being sappy and gay because i am also sappy and gay, please join me in deliberately ignoring jaskier's mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22975270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremegraphicviolins/pseuds/extremegraphicviolins
Summary: “Geralt.”“Hmm.”“Have you…” There’s a puff of breath against his chest, and he feels Jaskier’s fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. “Do you ever think about marriage?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 86
Kudos: 787
Collections: Best Geralt





	there will be no grand choir to sing

**Author's Note:**

> this story was only supposed to be a thousand words, but it apparently had a mind of its own. hope you enjoy!
> 
> title is from no choir by florence and the machine

It happens on a cool, quiet night.

The nights have been cool for a while now as fall sets in, but the quiet is a rarity. It isn’t eerie stillness, but a gentle thrum of life that runs through the forest. The last of the crickets chirp. Owls call out into the night. The fire crackles and pops, down to embers. Roach is gently snoring a few yards away. And Jaskier’s breaths come steady and soft, warm against Geralt’s skin. They’re tucked up close, chest to chest, arms and legs tangled up for warmth. 

The night is quiet, but not in the way that feels like the lull before imminent death. No, for once, this quiet means peace. 

“Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Have you…” There’s a puff of breath against his chest, and he feels Jaskier’s fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. “Do you ever think about marriage?”

The words are quiet, only meant for their ears. 

“Mm.” Geralt shifts under the blankets, opens his eyes. Jaskier’s already looking at him. In the dark, his pupils are blown wide, almost eating up the blue of his irises entirely. “Not really.” 

“No?” Jaskier nuzzles in closer. “How come?”

“It’s…” Geralt trails off. Tries to find the words. Witchers aren’t supposed to, on so many levels. Not supposed to have a family, not supposed to marry, not supposed to fall in love. Not supposed to feel. Not supposed to want. 

“It’s not encouraged,” he finally says. “Attachment. I was taught that it’s a weakness in this kind of life.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. For a long moment, he’s quiet, and Geralt is worried that once again, he’s put his foot in it. But the silence is blessedly broken when Jaskier says, “Sounds like they were wrong about a lot of things.”

Geralt _hmm_ s in agreement, and Jaskier continues. 

“I used to think about it, every once in a while,” he says, “about marrying some lord or lady who was stunningly beautiful and fabulously wealthy. Spending my days in the lap of luxury, with the finest food and clothes and wine you could ever imagine.” Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “Did you know, part of my plan for marrying rich was because I wanted a lute made of gold?”

“No,” Geralt says flatly. “I can scarcely believe it.”

Jaskier swats at him, but there’s no malice behind it. “Oh, hush. You know how it is. Teenage fantasies and the like. Anyway,” he says, “all of that sounds rather dull now.”

“What, compared to sleeping on the ground and going weeks without running water?”

“Mhm,” Jaskier says. “Something tells me there’s not a lot of adventure in being a trophy husband. No good material for songs.”

“Probably a lot less risk of untimely death, too.” Jaskier starts carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, and Geralt lets his eyes slip shut, leaning into the gentle touch. 

“You don’t have to try and scare me away, you know,” Jaskier says softly. “It’s been decades. Gonna take a lot more than the threat of mortal peril to get rid of me.” Jaskier’s fingers stop combing, but his hand stays there at the base of Geralt’s skull. 

Geralt opens his eyes, and there’s Jaskier, eyes wide and warm and endlessly fond and _oh,_ the things it does to his chest. Has done for years. Even before the two of them collided. 

Jaskier keeps talking, the words tumbling out of his mouth like water over a brook. “And you know, I haven’t thought about marriage for the longest time, not since those empty dreams of princesses and knights. I have been thinking rather a lot about what pleases me, though. And I have long since come to the conclusion, Geralt, that what pleases me is you.”

“Jaskier…” 

“You see, I’m quite hopelessly in love with you,” Jaskier says. His voice is steady. His hand, still in Geralt’s hair, is sure. “And I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and this, right here, is where I want to be. With you. Sleeping on the ground and trudging through mud and scrubbing selkimore guts out of my best shirts. I might like the finer things in life, Geralt, but I love _you._ For as long as you’ll have me, I would be yours, and have you be mine.”

“I am yours,” Geralt murmurs, smoothing Jaskier’s soft chestnut hair back from his face. “Been yours for a long time.”

“I know,” Jaskier whispers. “I know. What I am trying to say is… I would call myself your husband, if you would be mine.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Are you…” His head is spinning. His head is spinning and his heart is overflowing and the words don’t want to come. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Yes,” says Jaskier. “Is it working?”

Geralt surges forward and kisses him. 

“I love you,” Geralt says when they break apart. 

“And I you,” Jaskier says. And then, “So I take it that’s a yes?”

 _“Yes,”_ Geralt says, and kisses the rest of the words from his lips. 

* * *

It takes Geralt six weeks to find the ring. 

After that night in the woods, he starts looking in every town they stop in, ducking into blacksmiths’ and jewelers’ and curio shops, but none of the rings he finds are quite right. Either too big or too small; too gaudy or not gaudy enough; cheap trinkets, or elaborate works of gold that cost more than the heads of a dozen kikimoras. It can’t be just any ring. It’s for Jaskier. It has to be _right._

He finds it in a town a few days’ ride from Rinde, in a dusty little shop tucked into an alley. He’s just gotten paid for taking care of the wraith that was in town, so there’s coin to be had, a bit more than usual. 

The woman behind the counter seems surprised to see a Witcher in her shop — even more so to see a Witcher buying a wedding ring — but she doesn’t throw him out or charge him an exorbitant price. 

“I didn’t know Witchers got married,” she comments as she wraps up the ring in soft red cloth. 

Geralt grunts, sets some coin on the counter, and leaves. 

* * *

That night at the inn, after they’ve had a hot meal and Jaskier has racked up a decent amount of coin from singing, they head upstairs. As soon as the door to their room shuts, Jaskier crowds Geralt up against it and crushes their lips together. Geralt hums and opens up into the kiss, licking into Jaskier’s mouth and tugging him in closer by the hips. 

“So,” Jaskier says breathlessly when they break apart. “We’ve got a real bed tonight.”

“So we do.” It’s a nice one, too; soft and clean-smelling, with warm blankets and smooth cream-coloured sheets. 

Jaskier comes closer, eliminating what scant space there was between them. His breath is hot against Geralt’s ear as he whispers, “What do you say we put it to use?” 

Geralt _growls_ and pulls him in for another searing kiss, flipping them so that Jaskier is pressed against the door. Jaskier makes a delighted noise that Geralt eats up, and he starts grasping at Geralt’s shirt, trying to find the buttons and undo them. 

After a few moments of this, Jaskier breaks the kiss. “Fuck it.” His eyes are dark and heady as he gives Geralt a playful shove backwards and starts divesting himself of his doublet. “Bed. Now.”

Geralt grins and pulls his shirt over his head. “Mm. Someone’s in a mood.” 

“Yes, well, how can you blame me,” Jaskier says, flinging his shirt onto the floor and raking his eyes over Geralt’s bare torso, “when you’re looking like that?”

“Says you.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Geralt watches as Jaskier shucks off his shoes and pants. He gets one foot caught in a pant leg, and ends up hopping around on one foot like a strange bird until he rights himself. Geralt watches, shameless and enraptured and incredibly turned on, as Jaskier kicks the offending pants across the room and strides toward him, naked as the day he was born. 

Geralt drinks in the sight of him like a dying man in the desert. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it — of his strong legs, of the cocky sway of his hips, of the dark hair on his chest that trails down, down, down. Jaskier is a vision, vibrant and alive. And gods — Geralt is _painfully_ in love. 

Jaskier crawls into his lap, looping his arms around Geralt’s neck and grinding down in slow, teasing circles. He’s grinning, lop-sided and gorgeous. “Hi.”

Geralt’s hands settle on Jaskier’s bare hips. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face if he wanted to. “That was quite the show of acrobatics.”

“Thanks. I try.” Jaskier leans in and starts mouthing at Geralt’s neck, hips still moving. Through the fabric of his pants, the friction is just this side of not enough. “Mm. You should take these off.”

Geralt starts rolling his hips up to meet Jaskier’s. “Is that so.”

“Maybe I could persuade you.” In one fluid motion, Jaskier slides off Geralt’s lap, his knees hitting the floor and his hands smoothing over Geralt’s broad thighs. Jaskier’s fingers are nimble, making quick work of the laces on Geralt’s pants. All the while, Jaskier’s mouthing at him through the fabric. Teasing. Trailing open-mouthed kisses up and down then insides of his thighs, so close to where Gearlt wants him but never quite there. 

Jaskier’s nearly got the pants off of him when Geralt remembers.

“Jas— Jaskier.” The words take considerable effort, as Jaskier has chosen this moment to finally, _finally_ put his mouth on Geralt. “Wait.”

Concern flickers over Jaskier’s face, and he pauses. “Are you all right?”

Geralt nods. “Fine,” he says. “I just… would you come up here?” 

“‘Course.” Jaskier climbs onto the bed and sits cross-legged beside him. “What’s going on? You didn’t get yourself into another Law of Surprise, did you? Or piss off a mage bad enough that they cursed your co—”

“What?” Geralt says. “No. Nothing like that. My cock is fine.”

“Oh, good,” Jaskier says happily. “What is it, then?”

“It’s…” Geralt takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that there’s no need to be nervous. “It’s this,” he says, and takes out the ring. 

Jaskier’s eyes widen. His hand comes up to his mouth. For the first time since Geralt’s known him, he is stunned silent. 

“Do… do you like it?”

That seems to break the spell.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. He runs a hand down his face, down the beginnings of day-old stubble, then flings his arms around Geralt’s neck, pulling him into a crushing hug. “Oh, my darling. I love it.” Jaskier sits back, straddling Geralt’s thighs — he somehow ended up back in his lap — and kisses him, long and sweet. “And I love you. Will you put it on me?”

Geralt nods. Takes Jaskier’s offered hand, presses an open-mouthed kiss to his palm. “I love you too,” he murmurs, and slips the ring onto Jaskier’s finger. 

It took Geralt six weeks to find the ring. 

Now, the gold shines bright against Jaskier’s skin, and the low light illuminates the ornate wildflowers wrought into the band. It looks like it belongs there, on Jaskier’s graceful hand. 

It took six weeks to find the ring, and every single one of them was worth it.

“Well?”

Jaskier leans in, so close that their noses brush. “It’s perfect,” he says, and closes the distance with a kiss, sweet and open-mouthed. 

When they come up for air, Jaskier says, “Now can I take your pants off?”

Geralt laughs. Kicks his pants onto the floor. “I knew you just wanted to marry me for my body.”

“Obviously,” Jaskier says, running his hands down Geralt’s chest. “It’s a very sexy body, you know.” He starts working his hips again, more insistent than before now that there’s no layers between them, and _oh,_ that feels good. It’s still not enough, though; tonight, Geralt is ravenous, and he has a feeling that Jaskier is too. He nips at Jaskier’s bottom lip, hoping to spur him on. 

It works. Beautifully. 

Jaskier pulls him into a searing kiss, tipping Geralt’s head back and tugging at his hair. It’s messy. All teeth and tongue, spit-slick and wonderful. Geralt groans into his mouth, and when he grabs a handful of Jaskier’s ass and kneads, he can taste Jaskier’s answering growl. 

“I wanna ride you,” Jaskier says, breathless against Geralt’s neck. “So hard that I feel it for days.” 

Without thinking, Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s hips tightens. _“Fuck.”_

“Yes, that’s— _ah,_ that’s the plan.” Jaskier wraps a hand around both of them, moving slow, too slow for it to be anything but a tease. “Is that a yes?”

“Is that a— _yes,_ it’s a yes.” Geralt rolls his hips up impatiently. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier’s eyes flash and he grins, deliciously wicked. “If you insist,” he says, and pushes Geralt backwards onto the bed. 

Geralt goes willingly; lets himself land on the soft mattress and lets Jaskier land on top of him and crush their lips together. 

“I,” Jaskier says, stealing another kiss, “will be right back.” He rolls off of Geralt, and Geralt immediately misses the skin-to-skin contact. But much as he hates it when Jaskier leaves, he does love to watch him walk away. Loves to watch him pad across the room, gloriously naked; loves to watch as he shamelessly sticks his ass out while he rummages through his bag. Loves to watch him saunter back toward the bed, vial of oil in hand. The saunter turns into a jog halfway through, and Geralt smiles. Neither of them have much patience tonight, it seems. 

“So.” Jaskier crawls onto the bed, up Geralt’s body, sits on his hips. “You gonna get me ready?”

As if there was ever any question. Driving Jaskier to distraction with his fingers ranks high on Geralt’s list of favourite things to do together. 

He takes the bottle from Jaskier. “How do you want it?” he asks, rubbing circles into the divot of Jaskier’s hip with his thumb. “On your back? Hands and knees?” Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Or like this, on top? You could sit on my face. Open you up with my tongue.”

At that, Jaskier moans. “Oh, yes,” he says, voice already ragged. “Yes, _please.”_

A smile spreads over Geralt’s face. He slides down the bed, yanks the stopper out of the bottle with his teeth. “Get up here, then.”

Jaskier goes. 

And Geralt goes to town. 

Geralt prides himself on skill. Always has. There’s been many a time when skill has saved his life — his skill with a blade has put food on the table, has saved him from being swallowed whole by monsters, has kept him from being killed by angry men. Even when he’s had nothing else to his name, he’s always had his wits and his skill and the steadiness of a practiced hand. 

And this — lying flat on his back with Jaskier’s thighs bracketing his face — this isn’t so different. He _knows_ Jaskier, knows exactly what buttons will make him unravel fastest when pushed, and he wastes no time in pushing them, licking into Jaskier without preamble. 

Almost immediately, a moan is startled out of Jaskier. “Yeah,” he breathes, rolling his hips. _“Yeah,_ just like that—” 

They work up a rhythm, Geralt fucking him with his tongue and Jaskier rocking back, the most delicious sounds falling from his mouth in time with the movement of his hips. 

Blindly, Geralt fumbles with the bottle of oil, slicking up his fingers and probably getting oil all over the bed in the process. He can’t quite bring himself to care, though — especially not when he works a finger in alongside his tongue, and Jaskier’s body jerks so hard that he hears the headboard bang against the wall. 

_“Fuck,”_ Jaskier chokes out, grinding down hard. “That’s so good, you’re so good—”

The praise stokes a fire in the pit of Geralt’s stomach, and he growls. The vibrations of it pull another moan from Jaskier’s throat, and another loud _thunk_ from the headboard. 

“Oh, that’s— _fuck,_ that’s good,” Jaskier says, panting. “You can do another—”

So Geralt does, pulling back to bite gently at Jaskier’s inner thigh, drawing a lovely surprised noise out of him. He slips another finger in, spreading them in a V, then plunges his tongue in between them. The high-pitched whine Jaskier makes goes straight to his cock. 

Before long, Jaskier is asking for more. Geralt gives him a third finger, and curls his fingers up, searching for that magical spot. He knows when he finds it, because the only thing louder than the _thud_ of the bedframe against the wall is the shout Jaskier makes. Geralt doesn’t let up, rubbing over the spot relentlessly and licking at the place where his fingers meet Jaskier’s body. It’s got Jaskier moving even more erratically, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to get closer or further away. 

“Geralt, love,” Jaskier grits out, “will you _fucking get on with it?_ Because if you keep this up there’s no way I’m going to last. _And,”_ he says, “I was promised a ride.”

And, well. A promise is a promise. 

So Geralt eases up, pulls back with a noise that should _not_ be as hot as it is. Gently draws his fingers out. Lets Jaskier work his way down his body until their hips are flush. Geralt groans. He’d been so focused on Jaskier that the friction is like a jolt of lightning, almost taking him by surprise with how good it feels. 

Jaskier grinds against him a couple times, his face tucked into the junction of Geralt’s neck and shoulder, nipping and licking and sending hot breath ghosting over his skin. A shiver runs through Geralt like water through a conduit.

And then Jaskier is moving up and back, taking Geralt in an oil-slick hand and lining them up. There’s the first touch, slow and careful, that elicits a sharp breath from both of them. 

Jaskier starts sinking down on shaking thighs, and it’s so good that Geralt’s mind goes white. It’s so good that he could lie back and close his eyes and just let the feeling wash over him, cresting and crashing like a wave. It’s so good. It’s _always_ so good. 

But watching Jaskier’s face is its own kind of better. 

He moves slow. Always does for this part. His hands are braced on Geralt’s chest, his head tipped back, eyes closed, lips parted in a soft ‘o’. He’s utterly enchanting, and Geralt is utterly in love.

On instinct, his hands go up to Jaskier’s hips. Not to control or claim, just to feel. To hold. He rubs circles into the skin with his thumbs, keeps doing it until Jaskier is all the way down, his ass flush with Geralt’s hips. 

Geralt groans. _“Fuck.”_

Jaskier leans down, curling over Geralt’s body and pressing their foreheads together. “I love you,” he says, blue eyes blown wide. They’re pressed so close that Geralt can feel the words; tastes them as much as he hears them. 

“I love you too,” Geralt says, and tilts his chin up to capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. It’s a brief thing, surprisingly chaste considering the fact that Jaskier is sitting on his cock. A quick brush of lips, the barest hint of tongue before they part. Jaskier exhales and sits up. “You ready?” 

Jaskier just smiles that gorgeous crooked smile, cocky enough to get him into worlds of trouble and pretty enough to get him out of it. “Are you?” 

(He’s not. Doesn’t think he ever will be. He’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready for that first shift, for the way it punches the air clean out of him every time.)

And Jaskier starts to move. 

It’s slow at first, the shallow up-and-down movement of Jaskier’s hips as he adjusts to the sensation. He quickly gains momentum, though, and true to his word, he rides Geralt _hard,_ the gentle roll of his hips turning into quick snaps that have both of them moaning. 

“Are you gonna move?” Jaskier asks after a while, a teasing lilt to his voice. “It’s like I’m— _ah—_ like I’m doing all the work.”

“I’m enjoying the view,” Geralt replies. And what a lovely view it is — Jaskier, face flushed and smiling, his hair falling in his eyes. 

Jaskier laughs breathlessly. “Could you perhaps enjoy it while you fu—”

The rest of words are lost to Jaskier’s choked-out moan as Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier’s hips and fucks up into him. “You mean like this?”

“Oh, _fuck, yes,”_ Jaskier moans. His eyes are wide and wild as he rocks frantically back onto Geralt, trying to get him deeper. “Oh— oh gods—” The pace builds into something brutal, until the only sounds in the room are the slap of skin on skin and the little _ah ah ah_ s that Jaskier makes in time with Geralt’s thrusts. 

Jaskier falls forward, draping himself over Geralt’s front, hips still working. Geralt’s arms wrap around Jaskier. It’s so much closer like this, pressed chest to chest. He can feel the tremors that wrack Jaskier’s body with every thrust. He’s close, if the little pants and whimpers falling from his lips are anything to go by. Geralt can feel his own release fast approaching as the tight heat threatens to overwhelm him. 

“Geralt—” 

“Tell me what you want,” Geralt says, voice low in his throat. 

“I just can’t get— will you—” Jaskier makes a frustrated noise and flips them over, pulling Geralt on top of him and wrapping his legs around his waist. _“Harder.”_

It’s not as deep like this, but the change in angle has him hitting that spot over and over, the one that makes Jaskier’s whole body shake. Geralt captures his lips in a messy kiss and swallows his cries whole. 

“I’m close,” Jaskier says against his mouth when they come up for air. “I’m so fucking close, Geralt, I—” His back arches, trying to get Geralt deeper, and his head tips back, eyes scrunching shut.

“So am I.” Geralt mouths at his neck. “What do you need?”

“Anything,” Jaskier says, “anything at all, just _touch me.”_

Geralt slips a hand between them, takes Jaskier in hand. One, two strokes is all it takes, and he’s tensing up beneath Geralt, arms and legs like a vise grip around him, teeth sunk into Geralt’s shoulder, and then—

And then he breaks. 

The noise Jaskier makes when he comes is unholy, raw and wrecked and worlds better than any hymn. It’s all Geralt needs to follow him over the edge, hips stuttering to a stop as he spills deep inside, his mind going blessedly, blissfully blank. 

* * *

Later, when they’re clean and dry and warm, tangled up naked between soft sheets, Jaskier speaks. 

“You know,” he says, looking up at Geralt from where his head rests on his chest, “there’s a ceremony that I heard of a while ago.”

Geralt hums. “For summoning something?”

“What?” Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “No. I think I’m quite done with summoning otherworldly entities, thank you very much.”

“Thank fuck,” Geralt says, his mouth curling into a smile. 

Jaskier swats at him, playful, but then his face goes soft. “It’s a marriage ceremony,” he says. “An old one. Did you know, a marriage used to be considered binding as long as both people said ‘I marry you’?”

“I didn’t,” Geralt murmurs. “That sounds… nice.” 

“I thought so too,” Jaskier says softly. “I know you’re not one for bureaucracy or big parties, so I thought… maybe we could do it this way.”

Oh. 

“We can have a party if you want,” Geralt says.

“Yes, but I don’t want any of that,” Jaskier says. “I don’t want to bring any queens into this, or any kings, or gods, or courts.” He brushes a stray lock of silver hair behind Geralt’s ear, ever gentle. “I want _you.”_

_Oh._

Geralt is so full of love for this man that he thinks his heart might burst. “We could do it tonight.” 

“We could.” Jaskier moves in close, so close that their noses are almost touching, so close that Geralt can see the light smattering of freckles that summer left across his nose, so close that he can make out all the flecks of blue in Jaskier’s eyes. “Geralt of Rivia,” he whispers, “I marry you.” 

“I marry you, Jaskier.” Geralt cups Jaskier’s face in his hand. “My love.”

Jaskier smiles, eyes shiny and adoring. “You sap.”

Geralt laughs softly. “You’re one to talk.”

“Indeed I am.” Jaskier’s grinning now. “And you, my darling husband, are a sap, whether you admit it or— hey!” he splutters, laughing as Geralt blows a raspberry on his cheek. “I’m trying to be romantic here!”

Geralt grins back at him. “So am I,” he says, and pulls Jaskier on top of him. “Is it working?”

Jaskier _hmm_ s, pretending to consider. “You know,” he says, “I think it just might be.”

That’s all Geralt needs to hear. Heart light and smiling, he leans in to kiss his husband. Jaskier meets him halfway. 

It tastes like coming home. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i'd LOVE to hear what you thought of this fic, so feel free to leave a comment or come say hi on tumblr @extremegraphicviolins :)


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